


christmas sucks

by alicebishop



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Christmas Fluff, M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-23 08:07:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30052437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alicebishop/pseuds/alicebishop
Summary: Where Minho finds Jisung crying outside his apartment on Christmas Eve.
Relationships: Han Jisung | Han/Lee Minho | Lee Know
Comments: 2
Kudos: 33





	christmas sucks

I hate Christmas.

After explaining it to friends and colleagues and whoever else so many goddamn times, I realize it’s not reasonable. There wasn’t one inciting incident. Santa didn’t come down the chimney, steal my lunch money and roundhouse me. It was a process. A process through which I turned into the Grinch.

I’m not proud of it. When the holidays roll around again, the kids I teach come up to me and wish me a Merry Christmas. They have their little elf shoes and Santa hats, eyes glowing, looking forward to family and presents and junk food. I’m a bit jealous.

But it’s not like I have anywhere to go. My family wouldn’t particularly care if I lived or died, my friends have families of their own, I don’t have a boyfriend. I’m four years into a tradition where I go to a bar, drink until I forget about how sad I am, watch a Halloween movie — because I’m contradictory like that — and fall asleep on the couch.

Now it’s 10 o’clock on Christmas Eve. I’m zipping up my coat, about to carry my holiday tradition into its fifth year. I’m sad and ready to forget it. Forget all of it.

It’s windy and storming hard outside. It makes me think I should stay in and have hot cocoa or something. I should have hot cocoa _with_ someone. Even if you reject the consumerist or religious or traditionalist conventions — the people who made the holidays something to be dreaded — it’s kind of ridiculous to be alone on Christmas.

Having had that thought, I want to get drunk more than ever.

As I’m about to open my door, I hear a sound. A whimper, a cry. I’m fairly certain it isn’t mine. I look out the peephole.

My neighbour from across the hall — Han Jisung — is slumped against his door, crying into his sleeves.

I don’t know Jisung well. We met at the goodbye party for the old janitor, ended up standing next to each other, sipping our drinks. He complimented my sweater. 

“You should be in a Sears catalogue right now.” He pinched the fabric. “Ooh, soft.” His smile was cute.

We talked a few more times, in the hallway or at tenant meetings. Never deeper than the weather, random observations or comments. One time I pointed out that his shoe was untied. Another time he showed me a picture of his newborn nephew, just because he was proud. 

Sometimes we happened to be in the elevator at the same time. I don’t know why, but being in a small, quiet space with him was awkward — especially when we had already established that it was chilly out.

Now his shoulders are twitching as he cries, face buried in his arms, legs folded to his chest. His huge coat is wet with melted snow. There’s a suitcase and a backpack flanking him, slouched like he is.

I don’t know if I should go out there. I wouldn’t want that if it were me. To be seen at my most vulnerable. It’s so hard to stop crying once you start.

But I have a feeling Jisung is the opposite of me. He engages with our other neighbours, visits his family all the time — though they live farther away than mine do. The biggest tip-off I’m seeing right now is that his quarter of the hallway is decked out with Christmas stuff. A wreath on the door, a couple plastic reindeer on the floor, a dancing Santa. He loves the holidays.

Christmas spirit. Human connection. I drop my face into my hands and shake off the jitters.

I open the door. He hears it and looks up. His cheeks are smeared with tears, eyes cracked by tiny red veins.

“Jisung?” I say.

He squeezes up smaller, wiping his face. “Hey, Minho.”

“You okay?”

“No. But you’re on your way out. Thanks for asking.”

“What happened?”

His face screws up again. I look away.

“My flight was cancelled. It’s s-storming too hard. I’m not gonna see my family.”

“You were going tonight?”

“I was gonna go on the eighteenth, but it was cancelled, too. I thought I could at least spend New Year’s Eve with them. The storm wasn’t supposed to get worse…” He hides his face in his hands, going quiet. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” I click my nails together in my pockets. “What’re you gonna do?” 

“Cry more.” He attempts to smile. “What about you? Where are you off to?”

“A bar. To drink.”

“Not to a friend’s or something to celebrate?”

“No, I don’t really do all that.”

“All what?”

“Christmas stuff.”

“Why not?” He’s looking up at me, curious.

“Um, a lot of reasons. Another time maybe. Hope you feel better.” I tap his shoe with mine, at a loss. It’s weird.

“Yeah, you, too,” he says.

I nod a bit and head down the hall. I look back to see Jisung getting to his feet. He shoves his suitcase into his apartment and disappears through the door.

I press the down button. I get in. A minute later, it opens to the lobby. I stall and stare out into the room. It’s so lonely. The lights are hung but nobody’s here to see them.

I press the up button.

I march back up the hallway and knock on his door. He answers — in the biggest hoodie I’ve ever seen, pyjama bottoms, and slippers on his feet. His face is still flushed and miserable.

“Wanna spend Christmas with me?” I ask.

“Uh — what?”

“Come to my place. Or yours — doesn’t matter.”

“I thought you were going to a bar to drink.”

“I could — not. I don’t really feel like being alone.”

A smile pulls at his lips. “We don’t know each other.”

I shrug. “Let’s get to know each other.”

Now he smiles in earnest. “Can I come over now?”

“Sure.” 

He comes out and closes the door behind himself. I show him into my apartment. He looks around while I shuck my coat and kick off my shoes.

“You really don’t have any decorations up?” he murmurs.

“Nope.”

“Are you offended by Christmas merch?”

“Um, no.”

“Can I bring something over?” 

“Is it… your Christmas tree…?” 

“No, no, promise, not that. Be right back.” He skips out the door and leaves it open. I lean against the kitchen counter and wait. He comes back a second later with his phone.

He sets it on the table and taps the screen. It starts playing a bouncy piano song.

“A Charlie Brown Christmas.” He conjures two Santa hats from behind his back, puts one on and holds the other out to me. “Eh?”

I take it with my thumb and index finger like it’s gross. “Is it mandatory?”

“Of course not. It’s just kinda crazy not to have any decorations. Feels wrong.”

I sigh and put it on. “F’you say so.”

There’s a pause. I look down at my feet. My kitchen is a little bigger than the elevator, but it’s just as awkward when the conversation tapers out.

“So… you hungry?” I ask.

“Yeah, actually. Haven’t eaten since, like, three.”

I turn to the counter. “What do you like? I have instant soup and… nothing else.”

“I don’t mean to impose — I can get something from my place.”

“No, no, I’m hungry, too.” I fill a kettle with water from the tap. “All I had was a couple shortbread cookies this afternoon.”

“So you hate Christmas but you’ll reap the benefits?”

“I’m entitled to shortbread.”

He sidles up next to me as I put the kettle on the stove. “What can I do?”

“The soup’s up there. Excuse the cobwebs.”

He opens the cabinet and gets up on his tiptoes to paw around inside. I don’t know why I watch him while he does it, and I don’t know why I think it’s cute that he has to stretch to reach it.

He sets two cups on the counter. The water isn’t boiling yet. I turn, palms on the counter, and rack my brain for something to say.

“So you were going to a bar.” Oh, thank God. “Is that a tradition?”

“Yeah. I go to that place down the street, around the corner. Ever been?”

“I don’t really drink.”

“What do you do instead?”

“Deep thought.”

“Sounds boring.”

“Tis.” He moves his hat’s pompom from the left to the right. “I’ve never heard of a drunken Christmas.”

“It’s great. If you do it right, next time you wake up, it’s January.”

The kettle squeals. I take it off the burner, and he takes the seals off the cups, adding the seasoning. I pour the water in and press the lids back into place.

“I assume you’ve never had ramen for Christmas dinner before,” I say.

“No. It’s always been a more structured thing.” 

“Is that good or bad?”

“Neither. It’s just how it is. I guess I like it. I know what to expect.” He fidgets. “And I don’t know what to expect here. So I’m probably being awkward. Sorry.”

“No, I’m being awkward. Let’s just — eat and talk. You don’t have to be nervous.”

He nods, smiles, hands in the big front pocket of his hoodie.

“Where’re your forks?” he asks.

“That one.”

He opens the drawer and takes out my two forks.

“You only have two?”

“Sometimes one is dirty so I use the other.”

“Ever have company? For a dinner party or something?”

“Not really. My friends and I usually go out for food. How many forks do you have?”

“Like, six.” He sets the forks next to the bowls, perfect angles. “It pays to have a housewarming party.”

“Never had one of those.”

“So you’re just averse to all forms of celebration?”

I shrug. “Guess so.” 

“Don’t you have birthday parties?”

“Not since I was, like, nine.”

“What about the Fourth of July? Eid? Hanukhah? I’m starving, has it been three minutes yet?”

“Let’s just assume yes. Careful, it’s hot.” We take our soups to my shitty thrift shop table. I move my chair a bit closer to his. “And to answer your questions, no. I pretend it’s not happening.”

He regards me with his mouth tucked to the side of his face. “Why don’t you like Christmas?”

I blow on my soup and think it through. It takes too long.

“What are you thinking?” he asks.

“I’m tryna come up with a satisfying answer for you.”

“What’s the simplest answer?”

“I dunno. Christmas just — it sucks. Christmas sucks.”

“Explain that. Take it deeper.” He slurps his soup.

“You know how… things gain new meaning when, like, too many sucky things happen at the same time as those things? And it’s not just one thing that happens — it’s a lot of things, combined with stuff that happened before, and the anxiety of knowing that another thing is gonna happen soon. All this stuff that freaks you out and suddenly something that you loved is a great big pile of horse shit.”

He swallows. “You just said ‘thing’ a lot.”

“Uh-huh.” I put a tangle of noodles in my mouth and suck.

“I think I get where you’re coming from, but I’m wondering why you just — don’t do Christmas anymore. Isn’t there good stuff about it? What about presents?”

“I can live without them.”

“Food? Home-cooked meals?”

“We’re eating a home-cooked meal right now.”

“Family?”

I gesture to his everything. “Guessing from your, you know, vibe, that you love your family.”

“I do. Don’t you?”

“And I’m guessing that your family accepts you for who you are, no questions asked — or at least blissful ignorance and an uncomfortable, but ultimately deal-with-able silence. Right?”

“Um, yeah. Yeah, they do.”

I smile. “That’s nice.”

He doesn’t smile back. “Yours don’t, Minho?”

“No. I don’t think they’re really my family, not anymore. And now Christmas is just — just a bunch of reminders, everything they ever said, the last time I saw them, that they… they didn’t want to see me again. I don’t wanna celebrate that, you know?”

He’s looking at me with big eyes. He pulls his Santa hat off and stuffs it into his pocket. He snatches mine next.

“You don’t have to do that,” I say, fixing my hair.

“No, no.” He turns off the Peanuts music. “Fuck Christmas.”

I laugh. I drink the rest of my soup in a gulp.

“Before everything with your family,” he says, “was there any part of Christmas you did like?”

“I guess I liked… the lights. We used to put them in the bushes on the front lawn.” I sigh. “And presents. Presents are awesome.”

“What’s the best present you’ve ever gotten?”

“Weird story, actually. A bookend. My parents gave it to me when I was, like, eleven. It was in the shape of a horse’s head. The horse looked happy.” I shrug. “I didn’t hold any books up with it. I’d just stare at it.”

“Do you still have it?”

“No, it’s back at my mom and dad’s place.”

“Was it, like, dark brown?”

“Yeah.”

“Yea high?” He holds his hands about four inches apart.

“Um, yeah?”

He squints at me, obviously plotting.

“What’re you thinking?” I ask.

He snaps out of it. “That shortbread you were talking about earlier.”

“Subtle.” I take our bowls, put them in the sink, and grab the box of shortbread from the cupboard. “Come with me.”

I lead him a couple feet over — into the living room — and gesture for him to sit. He does. I go back to the kitchen, grab the chairs, and set them in front of my shitty IKEA couch.

“Put your feet up if you wanna.” I fold my ankles on the chair and leave the shortbread box open between us.

He mimics me, nibbling on a cookie. “You’re a gracious host, you know.”

“Thanks.”

“Being awkward and weird, but I’ve wanted to get to know you for a while now.”

“Oh. Well. Great. Welcome.” 

“Thanks.”

We munch and think in silence for a bit. It’s not as awkward as before. It’s still a little awkward. I know he’s right beside me, and the larger sum of my brain cells aren’t sure what to do with that knowledge. They toss it back and forth like a hot potato — drop it and scatter when I realize I don’t like the foot or so that remains between us. I resent it for existing that way, as a buffer, a barrier. Or maybe it’s just the box of cookies. And maybe I’m losing my mind.

Eventually I get tired of the silence. “Can you turn the music back on? I kinda liked it.”

He rummages around in the big pocket and takes his phone out. He leaves it on the couch as the music comes back. My feet tap to the rhythm.

“What’s up with your family?” I ask.

“What do you mean?”

“Why do you love them so much?”

“Um. I guess they make me feel safe. They make me feel like, whatever I do, there’ll be this little space between my big sister and younger brother. Just for me.”

“You really feel accepted like that?”

“Yeah. I wish you did.”

That chokes me up a bit. “Thank… you. Why did you move here?”

“Because I’m gonna be the next big thing.” He crosses his arms like he’s already made it. “I make music. I came out here to make my dreams come true.”

“How’s it going so far?”

“I work at Burger King.”

“Er, other than that. Any offers so far? Any deals on the table?”

“Not really. I mean, a crematorium asked me to write a jingle.”

“It’s gonna be hard to avoid sarcasm on that one, isn’t it?”

“I’ve written thirty that include the word ‘barbecue’ already.”

I laugh. How shameful. God is probably watching us giggle about death on his son’s birthday.

“What about you? What do you do?” Jisung asks.

“Came to be a dancer, ended up teaching kids.” 

“That’s so cute. You get to spend all day with kids.”

“Had a feeling you’d find it cute. I mean, it is cute. But it’s sort of like _my_ Burger King.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll make it.” He takes another cookie. By this point, we’ve eaten through half the box. 

“Okay, I’m cutting us off.” I get up, taking the box with me, and leave it in the kitchen.

“No, I only had three,” he whines.

“Then I’m cutting myself off and you’re a hapless casualty.”

I sit back down, feet on the chair. I didn’t mean to ignore the buffer between us. Now our shoulders touch.

“Well, thank you for taking me in,” he says.

I smile and speak under my breath. “Best Christmas I’ve ever had.”

He smiles, too.

We sit and listen to the music. Wind still whistles outside, snow tapping against the windows. The overhead light is dim — one of the bulbs burned out in August — and faintly flickering. I try to figure out if the heartbeat I’m feeling is his or mine.

Then his head is on my shoulder, hair soft against my skin. He nestles into the crook of my neck, closes his eyes — hands still folded on his pouch of Santa hats. I try so hard not to smile but I’m melting. I let my cheek down on his head, gently, just to let him know I accept him.

I don’t know what time it is when he stirs, but it comes too soon. 

“I should get back,” he says, straightening out. “It’s late.”

“All right. Hope you feel better.”

“Yeah. I’ll just” — he shrugs — “go in January. I still have presents to give. My nephew is one and a half now, can you believe that?”

I let my head back on the couch and look at him in a way I probably shouldn’t. “That’s crazy.”

He knocks my knee lightly. “Promise you won’t go to a bar? We’ve poisoned our bodies enough today.”

“I think I’m done with that tradition.”

“Oh? What changed?”

I don’t have a good answer, so I just shrug. “Promise you’ll come back if you wanna — do more of whatever this is.”

He nods. “Sure. I can show myself out.”

“Okay. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

He grabs his phone and leaves. The apartment is quiet again, except now I’m alone. I don’t sit on the couch for much longer. If I can’t be drunk, I’d like to be asleep. I get ready for bed, play a Halloween-centric podcast, and curl into a ball under the covers.

* * *

In the morning, I stare out the window, at the snow still falling in little tufts. My apartment is bright with it, happy. I sit crosslegged and scan my living room, thinking about where I could possibly fit a Christmas tree.

There’s a knock at the door. I get up and look out the peephole.

Jisung is there, snow on his head and shoulders, a glittery bag in his hands.

I fling the door open. “Hey. Good morning.”

He smiles, pulling his hood off. His cheeks and nose are tomato-red from the cold. “Good morning.” He holds the bag out and says, “I got you this. For Christmas.”

I’m stuck like a statue for a second. I take the bag. It’s heavier than I expected.

I reach in, and what comes out is a bookend. Bulky, brown, chipped, the shape of a horse’s head. I can’t do much but gape at it. Is it the same as the original? It’s been so long since I’ve seen it. The one in my hands looks similar enough to the one in my memories.

I look up at him. “How…?”

“It rang a bell when you were describing it. There’s this thrift shop I walk by on the way to work — I’d seen it in the window.”

“But… how…?”

“Christmas miracle? No, that’s stupid.” He shrugs and smiles. “I know it’s not the original. It was too good to pass up.”

“No, thank you, Jisung, seriously.” I show him the face. “Look, it’s so happy.”

“It is, isn’t it? What are you gonna do with it?”

“Stare at it. Thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome.” He looks down, drawing something on the floor with his booted foot. “So. Do you have anything for me?”

I lean in and kiss his cheek. Somehow he flushes brighter than he already was. 

“You wanna get coffee?”

“Like, on a date?”

“Yeah.”

He gulps and plays it cool. “Sure. Are you ready now?”

“You bet.”

I leave the bookend on the counter, grab my coat, and close the door behind me.


End file.
